


Square Miles

by vials



Category: Kingsman (Movies)
Genre: Character Study, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-29
Updated: 2019-10-29
Packaged: 2021-01-12 07:31:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,070
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21230945
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vials/pseuds/vials
Summary: A series of snapshots from the childhoods of two very different boys, growing up only a few short miles apart.





	Square Miles

**Author's Note:**

> (From the backlog of fic -- 2017 batch.)

**A snapshot: Gary Lee “Eggsy” Unwin, age 5**

The TV is on. It’s on some channel he doesn’t understand, murmuring voices using lots of words he doesn’t know or doesn’t care about. There’s a stranger sitting with his mummy on the sofa, but he seemed nice enough so Eggsy wasn’t that bothered about him. The voices on the television are low and the voices from the sofa are low, too. Eggsy plays on the carpet, little toy soldiers running back and forth, gunfire noises with his mouth. Somewhere he thinks he might be staying up later than he’s usually allowed, but it doesn’t matter. He’s not going to say anything. It’s exciting, being up with the adults.

Suddenly his mummy is yelling. Not angry yelling, which confuses Eggsy. She’s _crying_. Eggsy has never seen his mummy cry before. He turns, sitting on the carpet and staring in confusion. She’s pushing the man away, and Eggsy is about to get up and tell him to leave his mummy alone when he moves away himself, turning his attention to Eggsy instead. Eggsy looks back at his toys. He doesn’t want to be nice to somebody who makes his mummy cry. The man crouches down to Eggsy’s level, gives him something small and gold. Eggsy doesn’t think about it until later on – he’s too focused with his soldiers. He has no idea that that little gold medal will soon mean so much to him.

The man leaves. His mummy is still crying. Eggsy plays, and plays, and plays. Finally he stops. It’s too late. It’s too wrong. Mummy hasn’t moved. She hasn’t put him to bed. She hasn’t told him to go and brush his teeth. The TV is still on low.

“Mummy?” he whispers, because it seems naughty to raise his voice at the moment. “Mummy, why are you crying? Was the man mean?”

He walks over, unsteadily stepping around his toys, and reaches up to her. He can only reach her lap, but he pats it gently, like he saw his daddy do when they spoke in low voices too. 

“Oh, Eggsy,” his mummy says, and then she starts to cry harder. 

“Mummy?” Eggsy asks again, and he can feel himself getting scared now – what could make a mummy cry like this? He couldn’t remember ever seeing _anyone’s_ mummy cry. He had started to insist he was too big for cuddles but when she lifted him up onto her lap he clung to her. “Mummy, what’s wrong?”

“It’s about daddy,” his mummy says, her voice wobbling. “We’re not going to see him for a while, Eggsy. Not for a long time.”

Eggsy looks at her. “Why?”

“He’s gone to heaven,” his mummy says, and then she sobs again, unable to stop them. “I’m sorry, Eggsy. He’s gone to heaven and he won’t be back.”

**A snapshot: Charles Walter Richard “Charlie” Hesketh, age 6**

His father’s office is boring, boring, boring. There’s only so long he can run around beside the floor-to-ceiling glass windows, pretending he’s flying across London. It’s the first time his father’s brought him into work with him and he’s playing at being the family man, though Charlie doesn’t understand what that means yet. It’s just something his mother says, usually under her breath, in one of the weird times where she gets angry but then tells Charlie no, darling, mumsy’s not angry at _you_. It’s a novel thing that Charlie quite enjoys.

“Charlie!” his father calls. “Come over here, kiddo.”

Charlie changes his direction and charges towards his father instead, hitting his legs with an overly exaggerated oof. His father’s colleagues laugh dutifully. 

“Good-looking lad, Walter,” says one of them, and there are agreements and comments about how much they look alike. 

“Got his daddy’s ambition, too, haven’t you, Charlie?” his father asks, and Charlie nods and grins, even though he’s still not entirely sure what ambition means. “Tell everyone what you want to be when you grow up.”

“Rich!” Charlie declares, to more laughter. 

He’s played his part well, and his father lets him hurry along. Charlie is allowed free reign of the office, running around and crawling into places, getting under everyone’s legs, and everyone is all smiles and all laughs and the secretaries think he’s the cutest thing ever. With some theatrical _oh no I shouldn’ts_ and some even more theatrical _please daddy!s_ from Charlie, his father consents to them feeding him biscuits and chocolates and even a Coke from the vending machine, and then Charlie gets to play at being secretary for a while, smacking away at one of the spare computers until his father picks him up again.

“Has be been doing a good job?” he asks the secretaries, who all laugh.

“He’s a bossy one! You might want to take him with you, I think he’s more CEO material,” says Deborah.

“What’s CEO?” Charlie asks, to more laughs.

“That means the _boss_, son,” his father tells him, with a wink, and Charlie grins.

Everyone loves him. Everything is fun.

**A snapshot: Gary Lee “Eggsy” Unwin, age 8**

It’s parent teacher night, which Eggsy hates. Not just because it’s an excuse for his teachers to complain about him, but because it means he’s in school in the evening instead of being out with his mates kicking a football around.

“But _whyyy_ can’t I just stay here?” he whines on the way to school, his mum tugging him along in her wake.

“Do you think money grows on trees?” she asks him. “I can’t get a babysitter.”

“I don’t _need_ a babysitter, Mum! I’m not a _baby_.” Eggsy tries to wrench free, but he’s still small and weedy and his mum has a strong grip on her. “I can just play footie. It’s fine.”

“You’re coming,” his mum growls, and that’s final. 

It’s as bad as he thought, and not even halfway through the teachers his mum’s glaring daggers at him. It’s like a merry-go-round of punishments, Eggsy thinks. The teachers are all sat in a circle at tables in the big lunch hall and his mum makes her way around Eggsy’s, somehow knowing who all his teachers are even though Eggsy doesn’t remember telling her. Later in life he’ll remember little things like that and be touched, but right now it’s torture. 

“Gary is a delightful child to talk to,” his maths teacher tells them, with a small smile directed in his direction. “But when it comes to _learning_, I think he’s easily distracted. It’s a shame, because he’s very _smart_ – you _are_ smart, Gary, so don’t give me that look – but as you can see he just doesn’t _believe_ it.”

His history teacher was less forgiving. “Gary’s disruptive, Mrs Unwin. I don’t like to criticise a child when he’s right there but he knows he is. He can’t sit still for a moment, and getting him to do work? No chance. Did he pass my message on about his homework?”

His mum glares at him, Eggsy slinks down in his seat. 

“He has _potential_,” insists his English teacher. “But he doesn’t use it. I’m not sure what’s going on. It’s such a shame, because every so often he’ll come out with something very insightful which proves he _can_ understand the material. I can only assume his slipping grades are because he doesn’t _want_ to, which is not a very good attitude to have.”

“You have so much going for you, Eggsy,” his mum tells him on the way home, angrily walking several steps ahead of him. “When are you going to grow up and put your head down? You said earlier you weren’t a baby. Why are you acting like one?”

He thinks about meekly apologising, but the embarrassment and anger is too much.

“Babies don’t go to school,” he grumbles, and listens to a lecture on cheekiness all the way home.

**A snapshot: Charles Walter Richard “Charlie” Hesketh, age 9**

Charlie is a hard worker. It’s all he’s ever known. The idea of something being only half-completed is abhorrent to him, but it doesn’t mean he enjoys doing it. There’s a lot at stake. His parents are paying a lot of money to get him into all these schools, and they’ve never failed to remind him of this since he started going to that seven-grand-a-term nursery. He’s a year away from the age where his parents can put in his application for Eton, because of course he’s going to Eton. All the boys in his line have gone to Eton, and his parents will be damned if Charlie is the first to fail.

“Eton, and then Cambridge of course,” his father tells him at five in the morning, as he runs around getting ready for work and Charlie sits at the table waiting for his before-school tutor to arrive. “But it won’t be any trouble for you, will it, Charlie? You’re a smart kid. You looking forward to it?”

Charlie’s half asleep, and only just manages to stifle a yawn. “To Eton?”

“Well, yes. But before that, the interviews, the looking around – they’ll want to check you out. It’ll be your first big interview. You excited?”

Charlie could think of nothing worse, really. “Oh, yes. It sounds exciting. Will I get another suit?”

It’s the right thing to say. His father ruffles his hair, laughing. “Dapper young man I have. Of course you will.”

His father’s out the door then and Charlie doesn’t see him for a couple of weeks. He has no idea where he goes, because when he calls – which isn’t as often these days – he’s usually in some different timezone in some airport somewhere, or he’s talking about the hotel, or he’s saying Charlie will have to come and visit the place when he’s a CEO himself. Charlie doesn’t see much of his mother, either, but that’s never been unusual; the only thing he wonders about her is where she spends all her time. Then again, as he wanders the house aimlessly in the evenings, once all his tutors are gone and he’s been to his sports meeting and the piano lesson isn’t until tomorrow and it’s just him and the house staff, he supposes his mother has plenty of places to hide. His house is the largest out of all of his friends’ at school, and he knows his father has more than one of them. His mother could be hiding in any one of the rooms.

Charlie likes his free time because he can play his favourite game. He likes to turn out all the lights so an entire floor of the house is pitch black, and then he runs down the hall so fast it feels as though he’s flying, just like at the officers with the whole of London spread out below him. There’s no one watching him fondly and laughing at his antics now, but he likes to skid to a stop in front of a random door and fling it open, pretending for just a moment that he’ll find his mother hiding behind it, all smiles, all laughs, and she’ll gather him up and say _well done, you found me_.

**A snapshot: Gary Lee “Eggsy” Unwin, age 11**

High school’s a joke. Even in his first year, Eggsy makes a habit of rarely showing up. His mum doesn’t really care, because if she’s not at work she’s hanging out with Steve, who’s just about as bland as his name would imply. They met at the pub, Eggsy thinks, or somewhere like that, and he drives lorries around but Eggsy’s fairly fucking certain he’s driving his mum around with that bullshit, because he’s sure Steve’s got a wife somewhere else in the country. He doesn’t know how he knows but Eggsy’s grown to be pretty fucking perceptive, and there’s something about the way Steve’s coat smells and how he always turns his phone off when he comes round that makes Eggsy think maybe there’s another bird on the scene.

He’s an arsehole, so Eggsy reckons his wife can’t be missing that much. He’s loud and drunk and encourages his mum to drink too, even though she didn’t used to do it so much.

“I _can’t_,” she’d insist, a couple of times just to say she had. “Eggsy’s here, and he’s got to be up for school in the morning.”

“He can work an alarm clock, can’t he?” Steve asks, like Eggsy’s not sitting at the dining room table a few feet away, trying to blow on his Super Noodles enough to cool them down to eat. “He’s ten, he’ll be fine.”

“I’m eleven,” Eggsy puts in, and Steve glares at him for a moment before evidently deciding picking a fight isn’t worth ruining a potentially boozy night.

“Eleven, then. Even better. He’ll be fine.”

“You don’t mind, do you, darling?” his mum asks ten minutes later, emerging from her room dressed up for the pub. 

“Nah,” Eggsy shrugs. “It’s fine. You have fun.”

Truth is, Eggsy likes being in the house by himself. He watches things he shouldn’t on TV, and he doesn’t do his homework. Sometimes he takes his key from his school bag and goes out, and it’s cool to hang out with his friends and know he doesn’t have to be back at a certain time, because his mum and Steve won’t be back until the pubs kick out at ten or eleven, whichever one it is, and then they’ll be too drunk to care. Sometimes it’s fun, and his mum is giggly and silly and doesn’t mind that he’s still up on a school night, and Steve’s had a good time and he’s brought chips back for Eggsy and ruffles his hair and says aye, he’s not a bad lad Michelle. Other times it’s not so good, and the door crashes open and his mum walks in with smudged makeup and tells Eggsy to go to bed right now, and Eggsy scuttles into his cupboard of a bedroom and listens to his mum and Steve yelling at one another until the early hours. It’s impossible to sleep on those nights and he always forgets to set his alarm because he’s under the bed with the pillows over his ears and he doesn’t dare come out, but it doesn’t matter because in the morning they’re so hungover they don’t emerge from the bedroom until Eggsy should be back home from school anyway, and they never notice he didn’t leave. 

The first time his mum came home with blood on her face was the first time Eggsy felt truly helpless. He lay in bed with his fists clenched all night, too small to do anything and hating himself for it.

**A snapshot: Charles Walter Richard “Charlie” Hesketh, age 12**

His mother’s drunk, which is something Charlie can’t remember seeing before in his life.

He still doesn’t see her often but it’s more often than when he was younger, because she lives in the same house now and his father’s business is now officially headquartered in London, which means she needs to be on hand for all the dinners his father hosts with his colleagues. Charlie is no longer allowed to run around for the benefit of entertainment and his father doesn’t show him off any more – not physically, anyway, though he still brags and it’s kind of embarrassing – but Charlie doesn’t mind. He has plenty to do in his room, and he gets to eat whatever he wants on dinner party nights. 

It’s after one of these nights that he’s wandering around and finds his mother in one of the studies, or drawing rooms, or is it another living room? Charlie doesn’t know, he’s only there because he smelled smoke and his mother is smoking in the house which is scandal of the highest level. He hovers in the doorway for a while and she pats the couch beside him, so he sits perched on the edge, looking at her. She’s still in her evening wear and she’s draped over the couch like in one of the paintings hung around the house, but she looks sad, and Charlie’s not sure what to say.

“Do you think Walter loves me, Charlie?” she suddenly asks, and Charlie wasn’t expecting that, not at all.

“Dad?” he asks. “Of course he does. You’re married. He thinks you’re the prettiest woman on earth.”

“He thinks I’m _pretty_,” his mother sighs, and Charlie feels uncomfortable with the tone. He’s never been teased before, not properly, but he thinks this is what it would sound like. After all, he’s _done_ plenty of teasing, and he doesn’t sound unlike his mother when he does. “But what about everything else? Am I just a bit of arm candy? I think that’s the case more and more, do you know that? I don’t know why I bother.”

Charlie stays silent. He isn’t sure what to say. He doesn’t like seeing his mother upset but he feels guilty for the things she’s saying about his father. 

“He does love you,” he says, lamely, because it’s all he can think to say. “Why would he still be married to you if he didn’t love you? That makes no sense.”

“Men are liars, Charlie,” his mother says, and her voice is angry but this time there’s no assurance that it’s not at him. “All of them. That’s something you’re going to learn.”

“I’m not a liar,” he says helplessly.

“You’re a boy. Wait until you’re older.” His mother blows out smoke and it curls towards the high ceiling. “You’ll be up to all the same tricks, I suppose. Marry a girl, keep her nice and pretty in some big old house, knock her up a few times maybe. Then you’ll fly off around the world and have one in every country. Your father has bloody lipstick on his collar a lot these days, and it sure as fuck isn’t mine.”

For some reason Charlie feels like crying. He waits in awkward silence for a few minutes and then stands and hurries out of the room. She doesn’t stop him.

**A snapshot: Gary Lee “Eggsy” Unwin, age 14**

The first time Eggsy gets home kind of drunk he thinks he’s home free, because no one yells at him the moment he comes in through the door even though it’s just after midnight and he was supposed to be home at ten. He laughs to himself as he stumbles in and then realises something is wrong, because the lighting in the living room is strange, and then he realises it’s because the lamp is still on but it’s on the floor and all the shadows are weird. For some reason it’s sobering and he stands there for a moment, trying to work out what’s going on.

It’s not Steve anymore, it’s Dean, and Eggsy’s got the uncomfortable feeling it’s going to be Dean for a while. There were others between Steve and Dean but there’s been no one but Dean since, even when his mum has had a huge row with him and he storms out. That’s what Eggsy’s thinking about when he looks around the room, because he’s heard the way they yell and now he can hear quiet sobbing.

He finds his mum sitting in the bathroom and her nose won’t stop bleeding and she can’t stop crying. Eggsy’s sobered up instantly and somehow he cleans her up and calms her down and helps her to the bed and lays her in it, tucking her in like she used to do for him. She’s drunk and can’t stop crying and tells Eggsy she hates Dean and she wishes he was dead and then she cries harder and says no, no, she doesn’t mean it, she loves him, he’s just under a lot of stress. Eggsy’s already made up his mind on the matter of Dean but there’s no point telling his mum that now. 

Dean comes home at three in the morning and Eggsy’s waiting for him. It’s the first time he stands up to him and it’s the only time for a long while that it works. Looking back Eggsy thinks maybe it was the shock, because he’s getting tall now and he’s never shown an interest in Dean before. Dean lets himself in and Eggsy’s standing right by the door and he kicks him in the balls as hard as he can and tells him if he touches his mum again, he’s going to kill him. 

It feels good until the next afternoon when his mum yells at him that she didn’t ask him to do that and now Dean’s upset, and if he does it again _she’ll_ kill him. Eggsy doesn’t regret it, but he wishes he’d just killed Dean to begin with. He’s young. It wouldn’t have been too much time out of his life. Had he knows what he was saving his mum from he would have probably done it. Nah. He would have _definitely_ done it.

**A snapshot: Charles Walter Richard “Charlie” Hesketh, age 15**

Charlie doesn’t know what got him thinking about it. It was an empty day at school – usually he would have rugby practise but there was a cold going around and half the team was out and the weather was terrible so their coach had called it quits. Charlie had got through his prep work and homework and then found himself with hours to spare, which was annoying, because he was used to working right up until he passed out and then waking up at god knows what time of the morning to do it again. He’s been in his room since lights-out and usually he has no trouble getting to sleep but he’s not done as much as he’s used to so he’s awake, and for the first time in his life he really, truly, has nothing to do.

So maybe that’s why he never noticed before. Maybe that’s why his mind had never gone down this path before. It was the oddest thing – he’s laying in bed, a little bored but otherwise feeling perfectly fine, but he wants to cry. He can’t stop thinking about all the many reasons he has for wanting to cry, either, but it’s fucking stupid because what does he have to cry about? He’s got a group of friends, he has a lot of laughs, he’s top of his year in every subject, he’s fast on his way to getting through his GCSEs and then he can start looking into Cambridge. He’s got a lot coming up – trips and holidays and rugby games and probably some other things he’s forgetting, he’s got more money than he needs and he’s in perfect health.

But there’s just something in him that he can’t ignore. He thinks back without his own consent and all he can cling to is all the weird moments with his mum, or the fact he can’t remember the last time he’s had a decent conversation with his dad, or how great it was when he was kid and he didn’t have to worry about any of this shit. He thinks about his lessons and wonders how many of them he even enjoys; he thinks about how hard he works and how he barely gets a whisper of praise back, not that he’s doing it for the praise, honest, but some acknowledgment would be nice. He thinks about how he hasn’t heard from his parents in weeks and there’s been no word about whether or not he’s coming home from half term and he’ll probably end up going home with Digby again which is fun because Digby is a great laugh but sometimes he would like to see his own parents for a bit.

Charlie tells himself he’s being stupid and that they’re both busy people but it still stings. He rolls over and glares through the dark and tells himself he’s being a moron but it doesn’t quite persuade him, and when he finally does fall asleep and wakes up in the morning he finds the heaviness that settled over him in the night hasn’t left and while he can ignore it in the day he’s going to have to get used to it once night falls.

**A snapshot: Gary Lee “Eggsy” Unwin, age 17**

He doesn’t want to leave his mum but it’s the only way.

It’s the evening before he leaves for basic training and he’s going to be a Marine because it’s the only thing that he can see himself doing, but that means he’s going to be away from home for a while and his mum’s going to be on her own with Dean, the fucker, and Eggsy’s not happy with that and he can tell his mum’s nervous too. Eggsy can’t do that much for her because Dean’s the kind of arsehole who’ll just beat them both up but he can at least distract him, he can at least kick up enough of a stink that the neighbours start banging on the walls, he can at least help his mum look after herself when Dean’s stormed off to the pub. He’s worried he’ll kill her, though he’ll never admit it.

There’s another reason why he’s joining the Marines. He likes to think Dean won’t be stupid enough to fuck with him once he gets back, fully trained and with more weight to him. 

His mum’s crying, but it’s not just about Dean. She’s worried about him. She’s hovering around him as he goes over his kit one final time and she looks proud but she looks so worried too, and it’s breaking Eggsy’s heart.

“You will be careful, won’t you?” she asks, once again. “You won’t do anything silly? You’ll look after yourself and you won’t hurt yourself?”

“Mum,” Eggsy says, though he can’t help but feel a little endeared. “What d’you think’s gonna happen? It’s just basic. It’s like the OTC shit, you know?”

“I know,” she sighs – she’s long since given up on telling him to watch his language. “But I just worry. I know that’s not going to be all it is. You’re going to be in the _Army_. What will I do if they send you to war?”

“They might,” Eggsy shrugs. “But it’s alright, Mum. I’ll be well trained and so will the others. We’ll look out for each other, yeah? And anyway, that’s not for a long way off yet. It’ll be fine. It’ll bring in good money, too. You’ll be able to quit a job and have some time to chill, yeah?”

“Oh, stop it,” she says, giving a teary smile. “You keep your money, Eggsy. Use it to start making your life. I’ll be alright.”

“Nah, no chance. I’m giving you some. If you wanna keep your jobs you can at least get a better flat. Maybe don’t give Dean the address.” 

She and Dean aren’t talking at the moment so she laughs. “Don’t tempt me.”

“We’ll be alright, Mum,” Eggsy says, seeing the worry briefly cross her face again in the pause. “Don’t worry about it. I’ll be back in a few months and it’ll be fine.”

“I know, I know,” she sighs. “I’m happy for you, Eggsy. I’m proud.” She looked worried for a moment more, and then finally smiles. “I bet your dad’s proud too.”

**A snapshot: Charles Walter Richard “Charlie” Hesketh, age 18**

University hits him out of nowhere and it’s full of distractions, full of new people, full of all the kinds of things Charlie should be pacing himself with but throws himself into anyway. He can’t remember the last time he had so much to focus on and within a week it’s enough to forget all the darker thoughts, all the thoughts that swirl around his head and make it difficult to sleep. He has a heavy course load and then he has extra-curricular activities and sports, and then he has society meetings and house parties and nights out on the town. He barely has a moment to himself and he’s back to stumbling in with his flatmate at three in the morning, eating takeout or drunkenly cooking mash or mac and cheese or whatever they have in there that they can cook in bulk, and then he’s passing out and waking up three hours later for rowing or for a run or to make an early start on his prep for the day’s lessons. He constantly feels kind of disjointed from the world but he supposes that’s normal when someone’s as busy as he is – he’s starting to understand why his father was always so distant. Nothing personal, he knows now – just the mark of a successful man.

He got into Cambridge, of course, and he’s a little annoyed because he had to move in on his own because his mother was god knows where and his father was working, but it’s fine because Digby’s there and his family helps him out and they all go out and have lunch and drinks and celebrate a bit, and then he gets a voicemail from his father congratulating him and there’s a further congratulations in a transfer for ten grand into his bank account, so Charlie’s not complained about it since. He’s an adult now, anyway – he can’t ask his parents to be there for everything; they all have their own lives. He thinks he’s probably finally worked it out, matured a bit, realised that it’s nothing personal. He doesn’t see his parents often – he doesn’t really see them ever, but so what? They raised him and they did a damn good job. Let them chill out a little now. He’s got it. 

It’s a freeing feeling. He doesn’t need them. He feels miles ahead of his friends, who are still checking up, still visiting home, still having parents visit. It’s encouraging. 

“I feel sorry for you,” Francesca slurs one night, when they’re all stuffing their faces with kebab. “Do you not miss your mum and dad?”

“Not really,” Charlie replies, through a mouthful of pita bread. “They have their own lives.”

“Too busy to see you?”

“They still care about me.” Charlie swallows and shrugs. “I don’t need to see them to know they care.”

“_How_ do you know, though? I’d feel so abandoned if Mummy didn’t call me.”

“Because my bank account’s still popping,” Charlie says, grinning, and everyone laughs like that settled it.


End file.
